The journey to love my imperfections

Let me share an experience with you.

 I remember as a child walking down the makeup aisle in dimly lit stores.

 I found everything on display curious, like the little brushes, powders and pens that transformed a person into both creator and creation at the same time.

 However, one product in particular always caught my eye: the eyeshadows.

 I didn't want them, but they did intrigue me.

 I found the idea of adding color around the eyes like a painter on a canvas interesting.

 Looking at the purple eyeshadow, my teenage pride swelled, as naturally, I had that color around my eyes.

 I was born with it. I called it "hereditary makeup."

 For a moment, I felt pretty.

 Then I saw the eye creams, in particular, the dark circle concealer. Concealer.

 That's when I started to question my appearance for the first time.

Why did something so natural about my body, something I had never noticed as a bad thing before, suddenly need to be corrected and covered up? Would anyone really think the delicate skin around my eyes was horrible?

 This was the beginning of a journey in which I tried to hide my God-given face.

 If I didn't have time to apply makeup under my eyes, I wore glasses to try to draw attention away from the even darker dark circles under my eyes.

 All to keep my face from being considered too dark for others.

 Once, I looked at my dark circles under my eyes in the mirror with contempt for so long because a guy (who I didn't even like) had said that dark circles under my eyes were gross.

 He was talking about James Dean backstage during a music practice.

 "Ew," he had said. "Dark circles under the eyes make him ugly."

 Another time, I woke up and looked in the mirror, and for some reason, I didn't detest the circles that particular morning.

 I decided to go to school without makeup, only to run to the bathroom and pull out my emergency kit when a teacher told me I looked tired and one of the prettiest girls in school asked me if I felt sick; I guess I looked sick and tired that day. It's ironic, because after her seemingly harmless comments, I felt sick and tired.

 I began to wonder what else people didn't like about my face.

Weren't my beauty marks beautiful after all? Was the little freckle under my right eye bothering anyone? If people got close enough to notice the small chip in my tooth, did they grimace?

 It got to a point where no part of my body was immune to criticism, even parts I used to love.

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